King and Lionheart {Bread}

The Libertine household had been nothing but solemn as of late, two unlucky years of Games reapings had left the once home, nothing but a shell of what it had once been. Even children of the sea drowned, and that was quickly learned as Penelope drowned in her own blood, spewing violently from her eye socket, and Learna being picked to pieces, bit by bit as the Careers took her down - under Penelope's watchful eye from the skies above, the second Libertine bit the dust. Every single moment had been watched on the family television set, flickering and covered in dust, with Kipling shaking it every two minutes to ensure that it didn't cut out in the middle of something important - a death. Jorge's nails still stayed uneven and broken, cracked at the sides with blood between the endless gripping of the couch arm, and biting them down to unworkable stubs. As Penelope bled, he bled with her. As Learna got cut to pieces, another nail bit was chopped off with the sheer force of his dental cavity.

The sixty-second Games hadn't brought much hope to the family - everyone was already so empty from Pen's death, lifeless and emotionless, going about pointless tasks with a little less spring in their steps. Jorge found especially that he had less motivation to do anything besides simply selling, bargaining had never been his specialty anyways when dealing with customers, but at least he'd tried. With the pulling of Learna's name at the second reaping, Jorge was done. How could Penelope let this happen? Was she not meant to watch down on her remaining siblings and make sure that they were protected - safe from the grasp of the people who once took her from their grips, make sure blood wouldn't shed again? He started to doubt the powers of angels as he watched his sister waltz up to the stage with nothing but a crying and screaming Ursula to guide her way - listen to her singing screams as she walked off to her last goodbye. Jorge didn't even remember if he had said anything to his sister as she sat in the Justice Building waiting for her impending doom - he knew that Ursula was wailing, as was Kipling. But he had always been more silent, analyzing, watching, he knew that if he had said anything out of turn, or anything at all it was truly a goodbye, and Jorge hadn't been ready to accept that fact.

But as the bloodbath ran by, and Learna landed a few blows, he'd wished that perhaps he'd said a few more words than just staring in her barren eyes with his and smiling. It's going to be alright, sister. You have the world's support, the Libertine's are popular. If only that'd been true, as Jorge watched with broken nails clinging to the old couch arm's and his toes digging hopelessly into the dull carpets beneath him - if only it'd been true as he watched what popularity truly did to a tribute, cut to pieces in front of his sister's watchful eyes, "Cover your eyes, Little Libertine." The victor boy had mocked her in front of the statuette of his already dead sister. Boom, the cannon sounded and Learna touched Penelope knowingly - as Jorge stayed hopelessly attached to the ground looking up, listening to Ursula's melody of screams that had lost their usual power - even she was tired of it all, having lost their power. Mother had disappeared alongside Kipling, Jorge hadn't seen them in a solid week, though he hadn't really taken to looking, his frozen eyes always looked out, beyond the shores. He fed himself these days - meager meals of whatever he found first in the fridge, often uncooked, Jorge didn't take care to waste the time considering how cursed the Libertine's seemed to be with having their time cut short.

However, as days and days passed, it seemed to be the shop taking the hit for it. Jorge couldn't remember the last time someone had taken a shift, making sure that income was actually coming to the family. The thick hardwood of every shelf was covered in dust an inch thick, with dust bunnies beginning to breed in the corners. Artifacts, and other useless items were tossed aside, not placed back on their shelves, the cash register seemed to be glued shut as the already rusted machine hadn't been opened in so long it was stuck. But most importantly, the red velvet seat that Jorge had taken a liking to, sitting hours upon hours upon had fallen so flat that one could feel the wood beneath it, making the chair like structure uncomfortable and boring - the window needed cleaning more than shelves, a thick layer of dust covering whatever view that he once had. Yet still - he sat, making out the careless figures running down the beach hand in hand, laughing and cheering. How had life changed so quickly? It seemed like only a month ago that Jorge would hear the endless snapping of Nessie's camera cataloging the items along the shelves, making sure that they knew what was coming in at any given time. He could feel the knowing glaze of Kip as he stared down an item determining it's worth, he could hear the laughter of Ursula, Learna and Penelope as they sold what they could for the highest price they could get from unknowing victims.

But there was so few of them left, Libertine's that is. And fewer that cared.

Jorge had never been a particularly huge fan of the shop, the business of scamming others, taking their possessions, it produced a solid income though and he was never really involved in it - the business that is, well not that taking their possessions really mattered. The Libertine was a no-questions-asked establishment, whether for better or worse. He had his sneaking suspicions of where the Ripley boys took their bounty from, the Sparrow girl's were no better - but business was business no matter from whence it came. Jorge hadn't heard the bell pushed up against the door ring as he watched outside, the day time was distracting him - the window was so beautiful, so pure, so natural, how quickly he'd forgotten the place he'd liked most - this is where he came to think, to write - oh to write, he hadn't written in his diary in so long, not that there was much to log. Sometime during the 62nd Hunger Games, Today my sister died. My second sister. Am I next? The day after sometime during the 62nd Hunger Games, Yesterday my sister died. My beloved Learna. Am I next? He could imagine the same repeated words scrolled across every page - how long had it been since he'd written in his journal? Sat by this window? Listened to his sister's laugh, heard the click of Nessie's camera, looked his mother square in her matching eyes, watched Kip play around with numbers, dreamed of Adam? At what point had his life just stopped and he forgot to keep, walking, on?

"Why didn't you answer me, you asshole." How long? C'mon, answer, you know how long. Since Learna died, since Penelope got reaped, since Adam left. You haven't been the same, you've been different, lost, hollow, how long, how long, how long. Since they all died. That was the answer. It took a moment for Jorge to click in that it hadn't been himself asking the question, the sudden and clear presence of Edwin Finch was almost - heartwarming. Despite the total lack of Libertine presence, the nasty shelves, the rickety door, there was always one thing that Jorge could count on - the crook customer's to come marching in with their sweet smiles and stolen item's, and the Finch's were the best of them. Edwin's brown hair seemed to be shadowed by the cupboards looming above him, though dark brown eyes pierced through the shadows, shining bright - drunk? Probably. That was what the pirate life was like, he imagined, drinking and screaming, exploring the world, the terrain beyond what was just here, the gates, the people, something beyond - what Jorge had always been looking for. He tasted the sweet peppermint on Edwin's breath, his sly grin as he calmly laughed at the sitting boy.

In the darkness, he looked almost like a younger - Jorge caught himself in his tracks, unwilling to go back to quiet night's in the dungeon basement of the home, whispered promises upon Adam's thin lips - shush, Libertine, shush, another time, another place. "Sorry Edwin.." He looked back out the window, to the sea, the glorious sea, to the fishermen paddling out to the border of adventure, to the children laughing along the shores. "Got distracted, anything I can help you with?"

Jorge had spent many a day in his life skipping rocks along the shore. That was when he dared to even venture outside to do so. There was a particular cliff face that always appealed to him perhaps a bit more than the others, nothing was ultimately special about it, really, there was no distinguishing features that set it apart from any of the others that were anywhere close to it. Maybe it was the small bursts of wind that he appreciated so much, the always cold front that seemed to sweep across his face every few minutes as he sat along the top. A nice refresher, a small beat of cold in a world of complete warmth. But there he sat – always sat, constantly skipping rocks in the summer months. Perhaps even, the colours that seemed to dye the rocks as the waves crashed against it to a low funeral beat. But despite all of it, it was the rock Jorge chose, because it was his. He could chip away stones and watch the day go by – and no one would care to disturb the Libertine boy who sat atop a rock.

He used to watch the waves crashing across the black rock tops of the cliff. The difference of grey between the wet stone and the dry evoked, to him, maybe a bit of emotion - the wetness brought darkness, and his hands were already soaked to the core with the blood of two dead sisters and maybe more someday soon. And the light stone – his hard exterior that slowly seemed to drip, chip away as he took stones to skip along the waters. The airy space had slowly become a slight comfort to the boy in his time of need, and despair. Something so vast, wild, natural was soothing to sit on and watch. Despite how hard he tried, there was just absolutely no way he could ever get more than two stones.

He tried.

The Libertine boy had spent day after day training himself, not in the field of battle, or surviving, though maybe that would be a good way to spend his time. Learna and Penelope hadn’t trained, and look where they both ended up. Six feet under the waves, now wouldn’t that be a nice place to stay. Flat rocks never even really skipped, everyone would say that they did, yet after years upon years of trying, throwing hard and soft, short and long, there didn’t seem to be any sort of trick that worked. All Jorge’s stones floated to the bottom of the ocean, with anchors as their weights, letting Davy Jones take them whole and die.

Die so peacefully at the bottom of the sea, the entire world of water there to bury them kindly. That was more than could be said about anyone else.

Adam had tried to show him how to skip rocks, to no avail. Or maybe all along, Adam was waiting for him to sink. That was a thought indeed. But how can one just sink without first seeing what the world had to offer – or maybe there was nothing more out there. But the dark eyes of Edwin Finch seemed to dictate otherwise. He could see the world in his dark brown eyes, where he never saw any more life in anyone else’s. Jorge was a wallflower, a nothingness on the wall who always sat, and listened, and watched. He watched the children play, and couples fight, and people kiss. He watched the tides come in, the tide roll out, and he watched the prizes they swept in. But never, never had he watched a boy who had such feeling in his eyes, there were whole world’s in Edwin’s eyes that Jorge had never seen, but wanted to explore.

Suddenly, his legs were swung up without Jorge even having the time to stop whatever was happening. Oh god, I’m being kidnapped and sent out to sea – I’m – sent out to sea. If only that were possible, yet the firm grip on his hands seemed so delicate and rough at the same time – calloused hands felt so weird against the skin, and the boy with world’s for eyes only smiled as he sat down and let down Jorge’s legs gently across his. The red swept so quickly across his face, a stark contrast to his normally pale skin that it stuck out – stuck out more than his slight attraction to the boy who always seemed to venture into the shop for the Finch’s. The smells of rum was ever distinct but only seemed to add another layer of calm to the situation at hand, the peppermint smell, and the warmth – the warmth of another body touching his despite it only being under his legs. It’d been a long time since anything had happened, since he’d touched a boy or hugged anyone, given anyone a handshake, the Libertine family had been out of commission for so long now.

Two whole years had been wasted down the drain, searching the ocean floor for the bodies of girls who wouldn’t come back no matter how hard anyone tried. A clock, ticking endlessly, and never stopping and rolling back the time, two years was gone now, and the warmth of someone else never seemed to feel so good.

Warmth. Yet his face still burned intense red, a sun firing across the atmosphere, his red lighting up the worlds created by his eyes even brighter, and the only thing Jorge could do not to embarrass himself further was to look down at his old leatherback journals and read.

May 23rd, of the 60th Hunger Games.

Dear Diary,

I’ve spent enough time around books to know that it is the only place in which I can seek any sort of comfort. I want a piece of mind, and it’s among the flipping of rough ragged pages that glide effortlessly across my fingertips that I find it. Though, I do say, that the act of reading in itself is perhaps the most relaxing thing at all. Sometimes stories, as they’re told aren’t as particularly exciting as I would originally intend them to be – heck I’d say more often than not, I find myself dwelling on the same page more than once.

More than twice, reading the same sentence over again just to make sure I’ve got it. More than twice, heading the same sentence over again just to make sure I’ve got it.
But, that’s not really the appeal in literature is it, I mean, the plot. Of course, there are those who read for the plot, the explicit romances, and the rising action, the ever awaited climax that bursts effortlessly through the scene and destroys everything important. It creates chaos. I’ve had enough chaos in my lifetime, and I didn’t need any more, ever. Maybe that’s just the dumb boys wish, but there’s nothing more I could ask out of life that could harm me.

If anything, I think I’d ask to forever remain by a window, watching the children run past with smiles on their faces as if it were absolutely effortless to run around and be happy. I’ve never had much experience in that field – still, it’s fun to watch, I think. Children running around, their soft feet pounding hard on the ground as they have yet to learn how it’s possible to be ever so quiet, tip toeing like cats across the top of a gate, and being as stealthy as a mouse in the night time – these were simple things that came with age, I suppose. Or maybe simple things that came with being lonesome, all alone for ever so long, looking out window sills that are dirty to the very core. Even if anyone took the time to now, I’m sure that nothing could be done to swipe the grime clear off, there would always be yellowing stains, and thick coats of dust and I’d come to accept that.

Not even sure if should the opportunity come, I would clean it. It adds a rustic view, a rustic? No. If anything it adds something new, new colour, old life. Perhaps it would even uncover lies – as the running children ran around happy but never seemed that optimistic in the ways they traipsed across the beach front. Sometimes their shoes weren’t tied properly (if they even had them) and that was enough to add a worried glance on their faces. With time, it seemed, anything and everything could be revealed about anyone – no one is a perfect picture even if they want to be – including kids.

But perhaps that’s why I find reading so appealing, the turn of the page not the plot. There’s no risk, no holding back, there’s only the list of pages, and the person reading them. There are no fake smiles, though there are fake stories. And maybe that’s what I find comforting, the fact that despite how I feel, the loneliness of my window, or the world that’s out there – the world I want to see, explore, create in. – it’s safer here, with a book in hand, and letting myself absorb words, a sponge of literature, but not a little boy worried about whether or not his shoes are tied on quite right.

That had been so long ago, the days before the games, before any Libertine blood had been sprayed – besides Kraken’s in his constant fighting, but this was, this time was before on television blaring repeatedly, this time before two of his sisters were dead, and there was no one left to accuse besides the Capitol. There was nothing to be done. There had been two years time between that journal entry and now, and Jorge couldn’t tell anyone much of what happened in-between.

His red face must have died down, but only causing his eyes to turn blue. There were world’s out there that he’d never seen, that he could’ve seen if only he hadn’t to stop whole years of his life to mourn two girls that never stood a chance against the people working against them. Clocks were stopped because eyes and hands were lost, and there was nothing – nothing that could’ve been done to stop that in the long run. If Jorge had just taken into account that time never stopped for anyone, that fate had its own plans for what every human had to endure, that fate had its own plans for when every human stopped living.
Jorge looked out the window promptly looking for those kids, the ones with unhappy smiles and untied shoelaces, but they weren’t there now. No one came around the Libertine household, too afraid of the curses from the sea it seemed to hold. Ursula’s songs sweeping throughout the hallways, because she still cried every day and night – but her howls were that of beauty, and pain. He heard those siren songs and wished he could sing, he watched Kipling keep track, and Nessie take pictures, and all he did was sit and watch.

Why couldn’t he go out and explore?

There were no more children at his window, any more couples kissing, or people laughing. There was just grass and the waves, calling gently out to him, singing a song very unlike that of Ursula’s. Just go. A voice urged him on, and on. There are world’s out there, if only in Edwin’s eyes. "What are you looking for out there? Nothing but fog, sky, and water," the sweet melodious voice of Edwin broke through the quick cloud of depression that had swiftly swept over him – sunshine in a rain storm was always a beautiful thing, though there hadn’t been much beauty lately.

As much as Jorge had tried, he couldn’t find the beauty in death, there were days where he sat and watched the recaps of the past two games. Having been told that perhaps standing headstrong in front of the fear that was a train chugging merrily along its tracks would help him come to an ending state with his sisters. But that was a long time past; there is not time to stop in front of trains. One must keep running along the tracks in the night in order to survive. Fear was not meant to be faced, he realized as he watched the slaughter of his siblings, over and over. There was death to face one day, but for the moment, he would keep running from trains. He would attempt to skip rocks along rocky waters, and hope that one day they wouldn’t sink, and he would watch the window waiting for those couples who are ever so certain, and the children with unhappy faces to reappear. He would wait forever, until he needed to. “I’m waiting.” He was waiting to see something amazing, the reanimation of his sisters, Adam, his mother’s soul, the happiness of his siblings. He was waiting for adventure which he knew was out there. “I don’t really know what for,” he lied. “But I figure it will come sooner or later.”

It’s then that Edwin gently offers Jorge a sip of his peppermint mixture – which he graciously refuses. That was just what the Libertine family needed, a drunkard who could barely walk let alone grieve. Mind you, one sip wouldn’t kill him – but still, Jorge didn’t accept and glanced back out the window. He felt the crystal prism gently rolling around on his leg in his pocket. What light would shine through now if he would hold up to the window? Probably not much. Between the mixture of dirt and dust on the window, and the dust on the prism, he was sure not much light would shine through. Not now, not until he cleaned it. And in the comfortable position he was currently in, with his legs atop of Edwin’s snuggled nicely to the shape of his body, Jorge wasn’t particularly inclined to do any cleaning – nor ever really.

"We've got all those bolts of cloth, and more down in the hold. On my honour, it's quality," Down to business, as always. Jorge didn’t know what to expect, especially with his legs atop the boys, and his peppermint breath filling Jorge’s lungs with a sweet nostalgia to the once lustful wanderer who lived in his basement. The whole situation reminded him of a home he didn’t have any more. In the peppermint he remembered singling children. In his eyes that seemed like world’s he remembered the great vast ocean that he used to love. In his legs he remembered the sweet touch of the older man three years prior. But his words, his words tasted sour, and dirty. Business. Suddenly Jorge recoiled, in a fashion, his legs, though still connected to Edwin’s, were not so relaxed, not so gentle. His slouched posture against the windowsill wall had become more tight, and upright.

“Sounds good, if you can just –“ Jorge had never been good at business talk. “y’know, dumb it outside somewhere, I’ll get Kip to value it, and it can – y’know, be sold, I guess.” Always the business man he was, though still taken aback. He had allowed himself to so fervently get loosened up, to lose whatever safety he’d been gathering up for year. There were barriers miles high, that kept dust and dirt that pushed out kids and couples, and never let him see rainbows in his prisms.

There were walls, and there would be a time for them to come crumbling down. For now, he would wait.